


Hewn Through the Rock

by neveralarch



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Post-Book: Lies Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Beverley runs an errand.
Relationships: Beverley Brook/Peter Grant
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	Hewn Through the Rock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [20thcenturyvole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide :)

Peter's problem, thought Bev, was that he just didn't understand how to get along with people.

If you went into every situation with impello blazing and your warrant card out, of course you were going to get banned from every demimonde market in London. And of course when you needed to buy wolfsbane harvested during the new moon, you wouldn't be able to get it. And of course you'd have to beg your fiancé to go and get it for you.

Bev scowled at the ring on her finger as she waited for the elevator that would take her down to the basement of the warehouse where the market was currently located. Maybe this was less Peter's problem and more a problem _with_ Peter. She should have thought about this before she signed on for the long haul.

The elevator dinged and Bev stepped in.

"What floor, please?" asked the person with pierced eyebrows and a split tongue currently acting as the attendant.

"Basement," said Bev. "The cock’s crow is always swift."

The attendant nodded and hit the button.

"It's all very James Bond, isn't it?" asked Bev. "Is that a quote from something?"

"I think they just make it up," said the attendant. "Makes them feel wise."

"Maybe it's Shakespeare," mused Bev. "Macbeth."

“I think it’s a sex joke,” said the attendant. “Hey, how’s the chickadee?”

“Growing,” said Bev. She didn’t ask how the attendant knew she was expecting. Gossip, a sixth sense, a glance at Bev’s swelling belly—it could be anything.

The door opened, and Bev stepped out into a garden. Little tents were scattered around, and she followed their course until she reached the herbalist.

"Wolfsbane, please." She pulled out her list, as if she was consulting it. It only had the one item, and a smiley face and 'you're the best, babe' because Peter knew Bev didn't have much time to waste on _errands_. "A quarter of a pound. Gathered _during_ the new moon, none of this crescent moon business."

The herbalist picked out a handful of wolfsbane with sure fingers and weighed it. "Thirty pounds," she said.

"You're joking," said Bev. "This stuff just grows out of the ground."

"Twenty-five, then," said the herbalist. She looked Bev up and down, then smirked. "And I'll throw in a bag of ginger for morning sickness."

Bev put her hand over the curve of her belly and summoned up one of her mother’s frowns. "I don't get morning sickness. Twenty pounds."

The haggling continued until Bev wore the woman down. She had to suppress a few winces when the parasite kicked at her. The little traitor.

"You're going to be just as much of a problem as your dad," she told it, as she made her way back to the elevator. Odd, then, that she was looking forward to it.

It was still the same attendant at the elevator. "Got everything you need?" they asked.

"Yeah," said Bev. "I think I do."


End file.
